Little Boy Blue (5 page)

    
The two boys left the
grounds by following the nearly dry riverbed for a mile, and then began
crossing through orange groves on dirt roads until they reached the railroad
track paralleling the highway toward Los Angeles. The odd shadows of night and
the strange sounds made them tingle with excited fear. Alex was thrilled at the
freedom, to be able to go wherever his whims dictated.

As midnight neared, the warmth of the day
left the air, replaced by a chill. They were on the outskirts of San Fernando
and knew they couldn’t walk the downtown streets at this hour without
attracting attention from the first passing prowl car. Between the railroad
right-of-way and the highway was a large auto wrecking yard stuffed with gutted,
truncated vehicles. The yard had a sagging board fence that shivered as they
climbed it. They found the hull of a bus and used it to spend the night. Sammy
lay on the floor, on shards of glass from a broken window, trembling with the
cold, hands between his thighs. Alex sat up, watching the traffic on the
highway, the growling diesel trucks outlined in lights, more relentless
than the darting automobiles. He thought of Clem, imagining the pain he was
causing his father, and yet he was not sorry for running away. Mrs. Cavendish
had been wrong, and he’d had to fight back. He had no goal. Once when he
ran away he’d gone to Clem’s room, and his father had immediately
taken him back to the military school. Alex wouldn’t make that mistake
again. They would head toward the ocean and then south toward San Diego.

He didn’t realize that he’d been
dozing until he woke up, shivering. The sky was lighter in the east. He
touched Sammy’s shoulder, and they left the junkyard, still following the
railroad tracks. Sammy wanted to hitchhike, but Alex knew it was still too
early, and they were still too close to the Valley Home for Boys.

Hunger drove them to cross a field to the
highway and enter a small cafe, where they spent half their money on pancakes
and milk.

Beside the cafe was a trailer set on blocks
and settled to rest. It had a dirt yard and a rope swing hanging from a tree.
The yard was cluttered with rusting things, but leaning against the trailer,
near the door, was a shiny red bicycle. The blank wall of the cafe blocked the
people there from seeing it, and the trailer was dark and silent.

“Look at that!” Alex said,
grabbing Sammy’s arm.

“It’s sure nice.”

“Let’s steal it. We can go a lot
faster riding than walking.”

Sammy stared at the mobile home. “What
if somebody comes out?”

“If they come out…” He
shrugged. “But they’re still asleep.”

Sammy said nothing, but his face registered
his fear.

“I’ll get it,” Alex said.
“You keep walking along the road, and I’ll pick you up.”
Alex’s young voice contained the hint of a sneer.

Sammy
hesitated, but one fear overcame another and he began trudging along the
highway shoulder. Alex waited until Sammy was about a hundred yards away,
then
moved quietly across the yard. When he reached the side
of the trailer he froze, listening for signs of someone moving. All was silent.
He took the bicycle by the handlebars and walked it across to the highway,
where he mounted and began to pedal. Up the road Sammy was walking, looking
back over his shoulder. When he saw Alex, Sammy waited. A minute later they
were on their way.

It took all day to cross the city of Los
Angeles. Late in the morning they stole a second bicycle from a park
playground, and thereafter they played follow-the-leader, weaving on sidewalks
and down alleys and around automobiles. The day was warm but bleak and overcast
until early afternoon. They wandered down side streets in both middle-class and
slum neighborhoods. It was an exploration of uncharted land where they might
meet any adventure. They stopped to rest and play in places as diverse as a
huge gravel pit (they were coated with white dust when they left) and a small
park with a public swimming pool. Once they had to walk the bicycles up a long
grade, but they raced wildly down several miles on the other side, laughing at
the wind in their faces. By late afternoon they’d traveled almost fifty
miles from where they started and were in Long Beach. Dinner was milk and sweet
rolls shoplifted from a small market, gulped on the beach in the shadow of the
immense amusement pier. Night arrived, and the gala
lights,
smells of hot dogs and onions and candy apples, and carnival sounds
beckoned to them. They wandered around the amusement pier, which overflowed
onto a wide boardwalk. They had no money for rides nor for what was giving off
good smells, but they wandered with the crowd and poked their noses wherever
they could, forgetting temporarily that they were still hungry. Movie theaters
were numerous and cheap. One was showing a Boris Karloff double
feature—The Mummy and Frankenstein—and they couldn’t resist
the lure of being frightened. Alex bought one ticket for twenty
cents—leaving them another twenty-five cents—went inside, then
opened an exit door so Sammy could slip in. They stayed through two
shows—until the lights went on as the theater closed.

The amusement park was going to sleep. Half
the concessions were shut down, and the crowd was reduced to a few clots of
moving people. The temperature had dropped, and a wind was up from the sea.
They spent their last money on a hot dog and orange drink that they shared,
standing in the mouth of an alley—two ragamuffins. An occasional
passerby stared at them. They looked forlorn and began to feel so.

“Let’s turn ourselves in,”
Sammy said. “I’m tired and hungry.”

“Not me,” Alex said.
“They’ve got to catch me.”

Sammy’s face screwed up, close to
tears. “It isn’t fun anymore,” he said. “It’s
going to be cold tonight.”

Alex felt hot anger. “You wanted to run
away yesterday morning. You wanted to steal that knife. Go if you want to. You
can turn yourself in.”

Sammy hesitated, and Alex turned into the
darkness of the alley. It was the way back to the bicycles. Seconds later Alex
heard running footsteps as Sammy caught up with him.

On the coast highway the white brilliance of
the headlights flashed across the two boys on bicycles. The wind of passing
vehicles beat upon them. About five miles outside of Long Beach Alex saw
the small grocery store, on the seaward side of the highway. There was a small
frame bungalow across a driveway from it but the mingling roar of the highway
and the nearby surf would erase any sound. The bungalow’s lights were
out, and there was no car in the driveway.

The idea of breaking into the store came
full-blown to Alex. He turned into the driveway and Sammy followed. They were
in the dark shadow of the store wall.

“What’d you stop for?”
Sammy asked.

“You’re hungry, aren’t
you?”

“Sure I’m hungry.”

“There’s some food in here.
We’re gonna break in and get it.”

“Oh, man, that’s really serious.
If they catch us—”

“Shut up, dammit! Turn yourself in if
you can’t take it.”

Head bowed, Sammy followed Alex. They went to
the rear and found a door that was half glass. The lock could be opened by hand
from the inside. “Find a rock,” Alex said, excitement beginning to
pound in his throat as he bent over the moon-whitened ground, the dirt mingled
with sand. The beach was only a few feet away, and beyond that the ocean
glistened
silver and black. The boys were shadows. Alex found
a small piece of concrete and told Sammy, “Go out front and see if you
hear anything. Keep a lookout until I call you.

Sammy disappeared down the driveway. Alex
waited a minute, then stood a couple of feet from the door and hurled the
concrete through the glass. The velocity punched a hole slightly larger than
the missile itself. The rock rattled around inside for a second after the
tinkling glass was silent. Alex had ducked around the corner of the building,
heart pounding, his ears tuned to hear any sound breaking the rhythm of the
night.

Nothing had changed; nobody had been aroused.
He reached through the hole and unfastened the lock, then pushed the door open.
He was in a small storeroom, and a lighter shadow ahead indicated an arch.
Through the front window he could see the passing traffic and make out
silhouettes against the background of the lights. He went and got Sammy.

“What if somebody comes?” Sammy
said as they entered again.

“Nobody’s coming. Get some
snacks.”

“Where are they?”

“Probably by the
counter.”

“This is robbery. They’ll really
send us to reform school if they catch us.”

“Catch us! Catch us! You’re
always scared. You shouldn’t have run away if you’re so
chicken.”

“This isn’t stealing small
stuff.”

For a few minutes they were furtive, and then
they became confident.

In the meat locker they found wieners roped
together and took a long strand. Alex opened a quart of chocolate milk, guzzled
part of it, and spilled the rest on the floor. He took several raw eggs and
hurled them up against the wall. But it was not his nature to take pleasure in
vandalism, and he was immediately sorry.

Sammy was gathering packages of bologna and
several loaves of bread. He took quarts of milk and large bottles of root beer
and boxes of candy bars.

Meanwhile, Alex was behind the counter. The
open cash register had two rolls of pennies, which he pocketed. He felt under
the counter and found the long barrel of a revolver. As he held it up in the
shadows, an electric thrill shot through him, both fright and excitement. It
was the first firearm he’d ever had. He put it in the sagging waistband
of his jeans. On shelves behind the counter were bottles of wine. He unscrewed
a bottle-top and took a swig. It was sweet and distasteful, but he swallowed it
down; then he did it again, wondering how it would feel. When a minute passed
without his feeling anything, he took several more gulps. Suddenly the warmth
and the giddiness crept through him. He felt dizzy and disliked it. He turned
the remainder of the bottle upside down and let it gurgle into a pool on the
floor. Then he filled his pockets with packets of chewing gum and grabbed a
paper bag filled with packaged pastries.

Sammy, meanwhile, had been in the freezer but
came out without taking anything. He was already carrying a large sack filled
with food. Now his fear was gone. “We’ve got plenty—”

At that moment headlights flashed across the
front window. Not headlights going by but headlights turning into the driveway.
Alex dropped to the floor. They could hear the car engine outside the building.

The engine went silent. Car doors opened and
slammed shut. Alex visualized the leaning bicycles framed in the
headlights’ glare, while, simultaneously, the wine spread intoxication
from his belly through his brain.

“Oh Jesus… oh Jesus,” Sammy
whispered, clutching Alex.

“Get the sacks,” Alex said.
“We’ll go out the front when they come in the back. Forget the
bikes. Just run across the highway.”

“Look what you’ve got us
into.”

Alex felt the fire of anger. He wanted to
punch Sammy. Instead he grabbed Sammy’s sleeve and pulled him toward the
front of the store. His elbow brushed the half-empty wine bottle on the
counter, knocking it to the floor with a crash that seemed like thunder.

Voices from outside could be heard in
snatches, in between the wind and surf. Alex visualized the bicycles
illuminated in the automobile headlights.
A giveaway.

He reached the front door. It was the
accordion-type, folding back from the center during business hours. Now it was
closed— and there was a padlock. Glancing back, he could see down the
aisles and through the arch into the storeroom; a flashlight beam was probing
around the open back door. He ducked away from Sammy and into an aisle. His
fear was growing. He had nowhere to go. The store had no windows.

A silhouette behind the flashlight beam
filled the back door, moving slowly through the storeroom, sweeping the beam
over the shelves, lighting Pillsbury sacks and cans of Crisco.

Alex hunkered at the end of the aisle so he
could go either way when the intruder entered. If the man came down one aisle,
Alex would take the other. He might be able to get out by the rear. He’d
forgotten Sammy—

“I give up, Mister,” Sammy said,
his shadow rising. Then he was framed in the flashlight beam.

“Sally, I caught one—a goddamm
kid, just like I thought.”

“Be careful,” a female voice
called. Alex could make out her figure in the doorway.

“I’m sorry! I’m
sorry,” Sammy whined, going toward the man.

“Where’s the other one?”
the man asked.

Alex, on hands and knees, moved behind the
counter. It would take him near the arch. Maybe he could just run by the woman.
His heart was squeezing in his chest. He barely breathed. The flashlight
swept over the countertop, but he was hidden. He was tempted to crawl onto a
counter shelf and hide, but he knew they would find him eventually.

The man held Sammy’s wrist in one hand
and the flashlight in the other.

The woman hovered
outside,
alternately asking what was happening and advising the man to watch out.

“You take care of this one,” the
man said. “He’s just a kid who should get a switch across his
ass.”

‘Suddenly without warning, the alcohol
and fear worked on Alex’s stomach, and he retched. The rich food
he’d just gulped down spewed from his mouth, followed by a reflexive
cough. The sounds were a magnet. The footsteps grew loud; the light was coming.
It struck Alex in his eyes. He came out of his crouch, turning and running
pell-mell, crashing into displays. He plowed into a glass cabinet, his foot
going through it. It sliced through his pants and cut his ankle.

The light and the man followed him
relentlessly. Alex ran down an aisle and reached a dead end—trapped. He
whirled, hearing the grunted breathing; the light was in his eyes now, with a
giant shadow behind it.

“Little cocksucker,” the man
said, closing in on him slowly.

Alex pulled the revolver from his waistband,
not thinking. “Stay away,” he said, his voice quaking—and at
the same instant the revolver exploded in his hand, sparks leaping from the
muzzle, the sound deafening in the close quarters. The flashlight somersaulted
and hit the floor, spinning its beam in a circle. The man went down, yelping in
shock. Then he said, quite clearly, “Well, I’ll be
damned…” He lurched into the shelf, and it toppled, spilling cans
and loaves of bread.

The man moaned and writhed.

“Phil! Phil!” the woman
bleated,
each call more shrill. Then she began to scream
when there was no answer.

Alex scrambled over the fallen shelf, stumbling
as he stepped on things, the revolver still in his hand.

The woman was in the back doorway, but she
ducked out of the way when the small figure came hurtling toward her.

Alex bolted into the fresh air, running in a
straight line toward the beach. He reached the sand and it seemed to clutch his
ankles. The woman was still screaming somewhere behind him. He never saw Sammy.
He ran until the soft dry sand turned hard near the water. Twice he stumbled,
his panic overrunning his legs. The second time he paused and hurled the
revolver into the foaming surf. It sank without a splash, and he began running
again. The ocean was ahead of him, so he turned left, staying on the hard sand
just above the surf, which occasionally splashed his ankles. The beach was empty
for miles, bordered by an occasional house and the highway.

A swath of moonlight—like a path across
the sea to the moon— raced beside him, but the lights that intersected
him were behind. He was half a mile away when the blinking red light turned in
the driveway. His lungs burned and his legs ached. He could run no farther
along the beach. He turned toward the moving lights on the highway, looking
back toward the house where three blinking red lights were gathered now.

A house faced the highway where he approached,
a big old house with a yard and a dog. The dog began to bark. Normally a dog
would have frightened Alex, but he was beyond that now. His dilemma was how to
get across the eight lanes of highway without being spotted. He flopped on his
stomach on the slope beside the roadway, waiting for a break in the traffic and
a lessening of the pain in his side.

Another blinking red light
came
speeding along the highway toward the store. The surf drowned the siren until
the light was close.